


Stand By Me

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Fluff, M/M, Reichenbach Feels, Secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1242358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the curse of being a doctor. John saw the symptoms for what they were in everyone else, but refused to recognise them in himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes a writer and a pairing grow apart. Due to various events in the fandom and my own personal growth, there have become pairings I enjoy writing less than others. Due to that and a lack of time to properly maintain all of my projects, I have decided to put this piece on hiatus. There is a possibility that I will return and finish it, but I can no longer guarantee it.
> 
> My most sincere apologies,  
> Iolre

That was the curse of being a doctor. John saw the bad signs before he wanted to admit them. It was something he was able to see in everyone else, yet denied the same symptoms when he was the one experiencing them. He had been feeling tired lately. Bruises he couldn’t explain. Stumbling when there was no reason. Adrenaline kept him moving through the chases, but the moment it was gone, his knee would give out and he would fall to the ground. Weight loss. All of it was unwanted. Unneeded. He knew what it meant. Even so, he refused to think about it, refused to acknowledge what it could be. It could all just be a coincidence.

His doctor had taken one look at him and ordered some tests, which led to more tests, all of which he suffered in stoic silence. John was careful to schedule them during times he was already at the surgery, so that Sherlock didn’t know. Still, sometimes it threatened to overlap with Sherlock’s demands on his time. It was more difficult, when John was referred to a haematologist, for ‘more testing’. He was starting to get sick of that word, of what it meant.

When his doctor called him, setting up a meeting to discuss his results, John hesitated. It often had helped his patients to have a support person by, when receiving bad news. He gritted his teeth and called the only other person that was his friend, besides Sherlock. John didn’t want to concern Sherlock with details, not yet. He had not told him anything. Speculation was pointless when he had no idea what was happening.

John sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair as soon as his doctor started talking. It had all been a lie he told to himself. An experiment in self-denial. It was exactly what he feared it would be. He had pretended it would mean nothing. That it was nothing. Denial, when he had seen the exact same symptoms in his patients and sent many to oncologists.

Cancer. Adult acute lymphoblastic leukaemia, to be exact. It was to be confirmed with a bone marrow biopsy. John sighed. More tests. More time away from Sherlock. Then there was to be a lumbar puncture, to check for central nervous system involvement - whether it had spread to his brain. It was surreal for John, even with Greg next to him. The DI’s lips were pressed firmly together, worry and anger the dominant expressions on his face. John was aware of their origins, aware of the denial, the stages of grief that Greg would follow. John wouldn’t, though. He wasn’t going to give into it.

Absently he ran through what little information he remembered from learning about ALL in medical school. The prognosis for adults was worse than children. Less than half of adults survived past five years. But it was treatable. Curable. He could go into remission and live out the rest of his life. It would mean at least four weeks in the hospital. A central line. Chemotherapy. Maybe radiation. John gritted his teeth. How would he hide that from Sherlock?

It wasn’t Sherlock’s problem. Sherlock wasn’t his partner. Sometimes John was left wondering if Sherlock was even his friend. Friends didn’t leave friends behind at crime scenes, or pretend to kill themselves and then be ‘dead’ for two years. So John kept his mouth shut. Said nothing. Brushed off any suspicious glances that Sherlock sent his way. The consulting detective wasn’t stupid. John was certain he knew something was happening that he wasn’t a part of. It took all of John’s energy to conceal it from the other man, but it was worth it. It had to be.

With Greg by his side, John got the news that there were lymphoblasts, leukaemia cells, present in his cerebrospinal fluid. The cancer had invaded his brain. John felt his chances of survival sinking lower and lower. Greg had sat quietly next to him, staunch in his role as the moral supporter. When they left, he said nothing, yet the squeeze he bestowed upon John’s shoulder said more than any words ever could. Then he took John to a bar and sat with him until both men were so drunk they couldn’t see straight.

It was a few days later, and John had spent them ignoring his haematologist’s recommendations. He wasn’t ready to leave, not yet. Sherlock had received a text from Lestrade and was readying to go down to NSY. “Aren’t you coming with?” The tall man fixed John with an intense stare.

“No, I have a shift at the surgery,” John answered absently, most of his attention on the newspaper in his hands.

“Boring,” Sherlock muttered.

“Boring, but necessary.” John turned the page, studiously ignoring Sherlock. The consulting detective made a rude noise and pulled on his coat before striding out the door. John barely noticed, so used to Sherlock’s sulks. He sat aside the newspaper, folding it out of habit. Standing, he grimaced as his knee twinged. Pain. He couldn’t put it off much longer.

Walking to the kitchen, he spotted Sherlock’s phone underneath a discarded pile of paper on the table. Interesting, considering the other man never seemed to be without it. John hesitated, and then made a decision. He picked it up, scrolling through the contacts until he found Mycroft’s name. Not a number - classified, and all that - but it was enough. He pressed the call button, held the phone to his ear, and told the soft-spoken woman who answered what he needed.

Within an hour there was an unmarked black car waiting in front of 221B. John slid in without complaint, wincing when his still-sore knee bumped the side of the car. He felt Mycroft’s gaze upon him. Those all-seeing eyes that were eerily similar to Sherlock’s. “I need your help.” John’s voice was clear, without hesitation. It had to work. Sherlock couldn’t know. He wasn’t ready to tell him.

It was set up in the matter of hours. Mycroft had taken over all of the details, more than John had intended, but he was not going to object. He wanted to survive, wanted to come back to Baker Street alive and well enough to stay by Sherlock’s side. Even if it was just as a quiet protector. John swallowed his pride and nodded his head as Mycroft arranged for private, expensive care at a hospital with the best ALL remission rate. Mycroft dropped him back at Baker Street with a small list of things to do. He only had two hours.

He packed a bag. A few outfits, a few knick knacks. One of the rare photos of Sherlock, looking all smug and mysterious. He called Greg, letting him know what was going on and requesting a couple of the videos that the DI had taken of Sherlock. Greg would have to coordinate with Mycroft to prevent Sherlock from finding out the truth. John made tea once he had finished packing. He wrote a quick note to Sherlock, stating that he would be gone for less than two months, not to worry, his rent was paid in advance. A second note was slipped under Mrs. Hudson’s door, bearing a similar set of words.

Within hours he was on a plane. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t know when he would see Sherlock again. He drummed one hand against his thigh, looking out the window. The other held his mobile, his lifeline. John had claimed family problems, the short note telling Sherlock that he had to go home for a while to care for his mother’s estate after she very recently passed away. Since his father had died two years ago, it was all left on John. Harry wasn’t sober enough to take care of things properly. It was a rubbish lie and on his own Sherlock would see through it in a moment. Greg was going to help sell it, going to help Mycroft keep Sherlock in London.

A sleek black car met him at the tarmac. John offered the woman a tight-lipped smile. It wasn’t much of a smile, but it was as close as he was going to get. “Dr. Watson?” the tall, dark-haired woman asked.

“Yes.” He nodded. One of Mycroft’s assistants. They all looked alike.

“This way.” She turned around, heels clacking against the tarmac as she opened the door and waited for him to get in. She said something to the driver that John didn’t understand - some language he didn’t recognize. Where was he? John forced his mind back to what was going on. Where he was didn’t matter. He was there to get healthy, recover, and then go home.

It was a thirty minute drive to the hospital. It was too long and too short at the same time. John stared out the window and watched the world go by, but didn’t really pay attention. What was Sherlock doing back home? Had he seen John’s note yet? Bothered Greg? Mycroft? Did he even care John was gone? He flipped open his phone, checked it. There was a text from Greg, wanting to know if John had made it to his hospital safely.

The car pulled up in front of the hospital, and there were doctors waiting by the bay they pulled into. John watched them, too anxious to find it amusing, how much power Mycroft obviously had, even outside of London. The next few hours passed in a blur. He removed his clothes and put on a flimsy hospital gown. He listened intently, lips pursed, as they detailed his plan of care. Surgery for a central line. Chemo. Radiation, if no response to the chemo. Remission was hoped for within four weeks, but there were no guarantees. John nodded mutely. He gripped his mobile in his hand. It was his lifeline, his only connection to Sherlock. As much as the other man drove him around the bend, he was - his friend. That was a lie, really. Sherlock Holmes was everything to John. Not that it mattered, not anymore.

Soon he was faced with a barrage of tests. X-rays. Blood tests. Lumbar puncture. All he had done prior, but the hospital wanted current tests, and John wasn’t going to argue. He was scheduled for central line insertion tomorrow, once the results were back. There would be injections into his back, into the spinal canal, to treat the leukaemia that had appeared there.. He was hooked up to heart monitors, pulse oximeters. He had a blood pressure cuff wrapped around his arm to monitor him constantly.

John sat on the bed, legs dangling over the side, as the nurse brought him dinner and his first round of chemotherapy by mouth. The rest would start tomorrow, and he would be sick of the hospital soon enough. He picked up his mobile, and slowly texted Greg back. There was still nothing from Sherlock, and it worried him. He sat the mobile down on the bedside table and ate the rest of his dinner. His phone buzzed as he ate the last bite, and a grin sneaked its way onto his face. He felt like a giddy school girl.

_‘You don’t even like your parents. SH’_

_‘Doesn’t mean I am not in charge of their estate. JW’_ John pushed away the bedside table and settled onto the bed, the mobile held in his hand. He was bored already. It wouldn’t matter much, not later, when he was sicker, but now, still healthy and not weakened by the chemo, he was bored.

His phone vibrated again, but John rolled his eyes when he saw it was Mycroft. _‘I shall have some literature of your choice delivered to the hospital within the hour. MH’_ Of course he was watching. John scowled at midair for the invasion of privacy. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it and was going to let Mycroft know.

 _‘I need your assistance in determining whether or not this woman’s liver decomposed at a normal rate or if it was hastened due to a change in temperature. SH’_ The text was accompanied by a picture of a partially decomposed liver that made John raise an eyebrow. Greg was going to be pissed at Sherlock’s lack of ethics.

 _‘Is that a crime scene? JW’_ Greg had been instructed to give him as many cases as he could. John rather doubted that the DI would appreciate Sherlock texting all of the confidential details, however.

_‘Yes. Problem? SH’_

_‘Not at all. Can you get me a different angle? JW’_

Mycroft was true to his word and books were delivered approximately forty five minutes later, including a new one by John’s favourite author. He gave a tight-lipped smile of thanks to the smartly dressed woman who delivered them and then piled them on the stand next to his bed for later perusal. _‘It is obvious that the sister killed her brother’s lover. Stupid. Sentiment. SH’_

John sighed, his thumb caressing the phone. Sentiment led to stupidity. He could attest to that. _‘Be nice to Mrs. Hudson. JW’_ It was like he could hear Sherlock’s snort, see the rolling of his eyes if John insinuated that Sherlock was anything less than an absolute gentleman to anyone. Silly git. John smiled fondly, settling on the bed. It was late, and he was tired.

He fell asleep, the mobile held in his hand, and Sherlock on his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

The next few weeks passed by in a blur. John grimaced. The nausea and vomiting were constant - as constant as the drugs they pumped into his body to attempt to refute the cancer that had invaded. They had had to shave part of his head to fit a catheter so they could deliver drugs straight to his cerebrospinal fluid in hopes of destroying the leukaemia there. The little hair he had left had started to fall out after just the first week.

The highlights were Sherlock’s texts. John had insisted he didn’t call - John didn’t have the strength to pretend everything was alright, and he didn’t want to lie to Sherlock any more than he absolutely had to. It felt dishonest. Sherlock’s texts were rude and abrasive sometimes, apologetic others - especially if John didn’t respond right away. Which he often didn’t.

The chemo and radiation had badly affected his body. He had little energy without the support of a recent transfusion, and he did little other than lie in bed. Sometimes he could read for a bit, and he slowly worked his way through the books Mycroft had brought him. After three days in the hospital, the stack had disappeared and been replaced with an eReader. John had scowled, but inwardly he had been thankful. He doubted that he would be able to hold heavy books for much longer. He had lost quite a bit of weight and was a walking skeleton, a ghost of what he had been. John examined himself with a critical eye one night after a nurse-assisted shower. A whole new level of humiliating.

After crawling back in bed, he stared at the date. He’d been at the hospital for three weeks. One more week to go, he thought desperately. One more week before they knew if what they’d been doing was successful.

Sherlock’s texts were growing more frantic now. Mycroft had dropped by the night before to check on John, and even the politician’s well-kept mask couldn’t hide all of his worry. Sherlock wasn’t doing too well, he said. There were mentions of losing weight, of possible drug use. Sherlock was lost without his blogger. It had surprised John, really. Sherlock actually cared? The aloof man who, the majority of the time, acted like John was a supreme inconvenience seemed to rely on John more than he had expected.

John’s mind floated, sometimes. He felt aimless, unattached to anything. Sherlock wasn’t there and Sherlock was what kept him grounded. How was Sherlock going to survive without him, when it didn’t work? With him, John thought, determined. The treatment was going to work, and he would take a break, then go back home to Sherlock. Back where he belonged.

-

Back to where Sherlock was currently sulking on the sofa. Sherlock picked at the fabric, a scowl on his face. John had been gone three bloody weeks and where was his blogger and he wanted him back right now. There was no point going to crime scenes when he wasn’t going to be admired. The Work was interesting, but it was far more interesting when John was there. There was no one to show off for, no one to tell him ‘Amazing!’ or ‘Brilliant.’ Sherlock hadn’t realized exactly how much that had mattered.

Plus no one had killed someone else in a particularly interesting way for two and a half weeks. Lestrade had even gotten so desperate to keep Sherlock from getting killed by Donovan that he had offered the entire cold case storage room to Sherlock as a treat.

Sherlock had spent a week in there before making an observation about Donovan that nearly got him killed. If her eyes could have thrown daggers, Sherlock would have been dead within seconds. He scoffed at the back of the sofa. He’d dodge anything she threw his way, metaphorical or not. He plucked at the fabric again, his mind unsettled. There had been something wrong about John’s story - he just didn’t know what.

When he had come back to 221B Baker Street, John had been gone. There was some hastily written note about having to tend to his parent’s estate because his mother had died. Sherlock’s phone had been a few centimeters to the left of where he had left it, and there was one new call. Sherlock’s eyes had narrowed and his trepidation kicked up several notches when he noticed the call was to Mycroft.

It was time to talk to the Homeless Network. He stomped back to his room, texting absentmindedly as he dressed as fast as he could. Slipping the Belstaff on, he left the room as dramatically as he could. Too bad he didn’t have his normal adoring audience. He scowled at the thought, dismissed it. He could sulk later.

There was a young woman lounging not far from the entrance to 221B. She was scruffy-looking, dreadlocks hidden under a warm wool knit cap, and her clothes were ragged and nondescript. She was perfect. He strode over to her, the money coming easily to his fingertips as he slid it into her pocket. “I need you to look into something for me. I need it as soon as possible. Use all of your best sources.” Having ensured that the appropriate message would be passed onto the right people, he spent the rest of the day moping around the flat. All he could do was wait. He hated waiting.

-

Greg came to visit a few days after Mycroft had showed up. How he’d gotten time off work John had no idea. Much less time to fly to wherever John was for a social visit. Mycroft, John had finally decided. Greg had stayed for several hours - as long as John’s strength lasted. The two talked most of the time, discussing everything from the state of football - pathetic - to the weather, to the current cases Greg was working on.

“How’s Sherlock?” John asked finally, his voice raspy. They’d been talking a long time and he was starting to get tired. Probably the only reason he asked the question. Damn. He had purposefully been avoiding asking about Sherlock. It was hard to think about his flatmate, what was happening without him.

Greg paused, his eyes everywhere but John. “Not coping very well,” he answered finally. “Mycroft and I have been able to keep him from flying down to where you’re supposed to be to hunt you down, but it’s been a near thing. Nearly caused a national disaster once, according to Myc.” Greg looked mildly affronted at the thought, and John’s face slowly broke out into a smile.

“Myc?” he asked, amusement clear in his eyes. Greg blushed.

“Fuck,” he swore, then glanced at John apologetically. “Sorry.”

“I wondered,” he said thoughtfully, “When neither of you balked at working with each other.” John paused again, thinking slowly. It was hard, with his brain muddled from the chemo. “I chalked it up to being Sherlock’s influence.” His thumb caressed the phone that was never far from his grasp. “He texts me. Constantly.”

Greg rubbed his forehead in exasperation, and John smiled at the gesture. “He’s been merciless,” he said with a groan. “Donovan’s about to kill him and have Anderson help her hide the corpse and hell, I wouldn’t put it past them. Not sure I’d blame them, either.”

“Ten more days,” John said quietly after checking the date. Greg smiled slightly, leaning over to very carefully squeeze John’s shoulder.

“I’ll see you in another couple weeks. Sherlock’ll be glad to see you, that’s for certain.” The silver-haired man stood up, slowly stretching out his arms and legs before walking towards the door.

“Mycroft’s got me booked in some rehab facility for a week to help get me back in shape.” John made a face and Greg laughed.

“Good.” The smile on Greg’s face was tired yet genuine. John watched the taller man go, envious at how Greg could get up and stride out of this hospital to resume a normal life. Pulling out his phone, he wasn’t surprised to see three new texts from Sherlock.

‘When are you coming home? SH’  
‘If convenient, come home now. SH’  
‘If inconvenient, come home now anyway. SH’

John smiled slightly, sad at the same time. It had taken Sherlock all of three days before he was texting John constantly about cases, asking his opinion and sending particularly gruesome photos that had Lestrade yelling at Sherlock about confidentiality. Sherlock had sulked for hours. The thought made John smile and even giggle a bit. ‘Ten days. JW’ he texted back, his fingers awkward and slow due to a chemo-fogged brain.

-

“Ten days?” Sherlock snarled at the phone, throwing it across the flat in desperation. He scowled as he got off the sofa and tromped after the phone, very much the picture of a stroppy toddler. Ten days was the last straw. That was utterly unacceptable. He was going to go hunt John down by himself.

It had to been done carefully, Sherlock thought, his mind whirling. Last time he’d tried it, a week and a half ago, Mycroft had interfered and had nearly caused an international incident. Sherlock huffed. Mycroft’s fault. His mobile was out and his fingers were flying before his mind caught up. If he was careful, he’d be able to get there before Mycroft noticed he was gone. He couldn’t do it like he tried last time. This time, he would take trains and - even worse - a bus. Sherlock scowled at the thought. John, he reminded himself.

There was something very, very wrong, and he wanted to know what it was. Now. Someone was lying to him and he simply didn’t have all the facts to know who it was. There was a ping and he glanced down at his phone. Throwing on the Belstaff, he stomped down the stairs and threw open the door to 221B. The same woman from a few days prior was waiting, in the same spot. Trapped between two fingers was a slip of paper.

He walked over nonchalantly, slipping her a few notes in return for the folded piece of paper. She nodded to him and sauntered off, blending in immediately with the scenery. If Sherlock hadn’t known she was there for a reason, hadn’t known her, he doubted even he would have seen her initially. That was why he hired his homeless network in the first place.

He tucked the slip of paper into a pocket before walking into the door of 221B. He unfolded it as soon as the door closed and he was out of sight. A growl escaped his lips as he read the few lines of text. The note simply read, ‘Still alive.’ She had been able to access sources in the city where John was supposed to be, where his mother supposedly died. John wasn’t there, and despite the paperwork Sherlock had found, his mother was very much alive. “Damn him.” Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he brayed, stomping up the stairs to his own flat and dramatically throwing open the door. Moments later the soft thump of her shoes could be heard coming up the stairs. Sherlock was glaring murderously at the wall.

“What is it, Sherlock? You’re making a dreadful mess,” she tutted, looking around at the papers sprawled randomly about the living room. Without John to get after him about cleaning up, Sherlock didn’t care about the papers nor the mess. He’d even lost interest in a few of his more mess-inducing experiments. Part of their fun was making John squirm, getting his attention.

“Did you see John leave?” he demanded.

“I wasn’t in, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson put a hand on her hip, eyeing his scruffy form. “Sit down, let me make you a cup of tea.” She walked easily into the kitchen, sorting steadily through the more nauseating experiments to find a clean mug. It was probably the last one in the flat.

“Must’ve been Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, throwing himself onto the sofa.

“I did see Mr. Holmes’ nice young woman drop by the flat later that day,” Mrs. Hudson said helpfully. She sat a mug of tea next to the sofa. Sherlock huffed but sat up and drank it, knowing she would sit there and stare at him until he did. It wasn’t that bad, but he still rolled his eyes and made exasperated noises.

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You can go.” She walked over and pecked a kiss on his cheek.

“Do take care of yourself, Sherlock,” she tutted, a disapproving look on her face. “It wouldn’t do for your nice young man to come back from taking care of his family’s estate to see you in such a state.”

“He’s not mine,” Sherlock muttered automatically. Mrs. Hudson smiled briefly before she went back downstairs, closing the door behind her. Sherlock sat up immediately, pulling his mobile out of his phone. He stabbed the key viciously, listening to the few brief rings before someone picked it up.

“Sherlock. To what do I owe this - pleasure?” Mycroft’s voice was even, modulated, yet Sherlock could hear a hint of friction underneath the smooth exterior.

“Where’s John?” he demanded. Without realizing it Sherlock was pacing about the flat. He forced himself to stop. There was a pause on the other end, and Sherlock started pacing again.

“I would presume taking care of his parent’s estate,” Mycroft replied blandly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft,” he snarled. “John called you using my phone. You set something up. He’s not where his mother died. She’s not even dead. I checked.”

“You checked?” Mycroft was decidedly more interested in the conversation, and Sherlock stilled. That in itself was confirmation of sorts.

“Yes.” Sherlock was pacing back and forth and he wasn’t sure what frustrated more - the fact he was pacing or why he was pacing. “Where. Is. He?”

“Ahh, I’m sorry, Sherlock. I haven’t the slightest idea. I must go - things to tend to, a country to run. You know.” The line went dead and Sherlock threw his mobile across the room with a growl. That had confirmed a few things. John wasn’t taking care of his mother’s estate, and likely hadn’t ever gone there. It also confirmed that Mycroft knew that and knew where he was. And he was keeping that a secret from Sherlock.

Sherlock stomped over to John’s laptop, opening it and deducing the password within seconds. He had ten days before John would be coming home - from wherever - and he wanted to see if he could find out where, first. Maybe John’s computer had a clue. Within minutes Sherlock was completely absorbed in the search, forgetting everything else. He didn’t notice anything else until his vision went splotchy, then dark, and he tilted over and passed out on the couch.

Having heard the thud, Mrs. Hudson quietly opened the door and forcibly sorted Sherlock’s body until it was laying more comfortably on the sofa. As much as it hurt her hip, she couldn’t bear to leave Sherlock looking like a limp rag. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, wondering if she’d used too much of the drug. Relieved to hear Sherlock’s soft breathing, she glanced at the laptop and noted he’d been prowling through John’s email.

She shook her head in amusement, placing the laptop on the table. Pulling the blanket up to Sherlock’s chin, she tucked it around his prone form, patting Sherlock’s shoulder with a fond smile. It wouldn’t do well for John to come back and find Sherlock so poorly taken care of. So Mrs. Hudson had taken matters into her own hands - with Mycroft’s help, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a writer and a pairing grow apart. Due to various events in the fandom and my own personal growth, there have become pairings I enjoy writing less than others. Due to that and a lack of time to properly maintain all of my projects, I have decided to put this piece on hiatus. There is a possibility that I will return and finish it, but I can no longer guarantee it.
> 
> My most sincere apologies,
> 
> Iolre


End file.
